Bibberchehttp://bibberche.com
Tue, 31 Mar 2015 15:44:40 +0000en-UShourly1http://wordpress.org/?v=4.0.1Africa On My Mind: Sweet Potato and Chicken Stewhttp://bibberche.com/sweet-potato-chicken-stew/
http://bibberche.com/sweet-potato-chicken-stew/#commentsTue, 31 Mar 2015 13:36:58 +0000http://bibberche.com/?p=843I have never been to Africa. I listened, entranced, to the stories of wonder my parents’ friends told about working on the dams in Zambia, or building the roads in Zimbabwe, tracing afterwords on the globe the meridians that led me to those exotic countries. In elementary school I followed with adrenalin-induced intensity the escapades […]

I have never been to Africa. I listened, entranced, to the stories of wonder my parents’ friends told about working on the dams in Zambia, or building the roads in Zimbabwe, tracing afterwords on the globe the meridians that led me to those exotic countries. In elementary school I followed with adrenalin-induced intensity the escapades of the two kidnapped children wandering through deserts and jungles in Henryk Sienkiewicz’s In Desert and Wilderness. In high school I suffered through Harry’s inevitable moribund monologues in The Snows of Kilimanjaro, and made a pledge to change the world when the horrible injustices of Appartheid made my heart constrict with sorrow in Alan Paton’s Cry, the Beloved Country.

I listened to the stories of safaris in Kenya and explorations of the Serengeti, and yearned to see the red sky on the horizon of the savannah. I watched every episode of the BBC Survival series, dreaming of the African sunrises and the majestic waterfalls. When my piano teacher left for Mauritania with her husband and daughter, I was heart-broken and sad, but curious and jealous at the same time.

I wanted to go to Africa when my friend John joined the Peace Corps and departed for Tunisia, but I was reluctant to skip the meridians again. Besides, I had a two year old daughter who was a bit too big to fit into a backpack. So I stayed put in a western suburb of Detroit and buried myself in the painful intricacies of The English Patient. My heart, already torn to slivers by divorce, became broken again and again, while I envisioned myself in the cave, the Saharan winds covering me with layers and layers of soft, seductive, and deadly sand.

I rejoiced when the mailman brought a postcard from my sister’s trip to Northern Africa, and cried laughing while she later described their adventures in Egypt and Morocco. I could envision her sitting under the enormous Saharan night sky next to the communal fire, surreptitiously rubbing her hands with an antiseptic just before a wizened Bedouin women of undetermined age offered her some flat bread and a tiny piece of some desiccated animal protein wrapped in dried camel dung. I chuckled as I imagined her chagrin when she discovered that she would be the one riding a donkey, while the rest of the group would ascend on the royal camels on their way to the pyramids, even though she would be the one leading the caravan.

I watched Hotel Rwanda embracing my knees with all my strength and sobbing inconsolably, unable to sleep for nights, asking myself what I could do to help. And I admired my friend Srdjan who spent months in the worst regions of Sudan on a UN mission to help the children.

Another friend is leaving soon for another UN mission, and Africa is again on my mind. Africa of Clarence, the Cross-Eyed Lion of my grade school years, Africa of Alex Haley’s Roots, Africa of The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver, Africa of Somalian babies with stomachs distended by hunger, Africa of merciless child-soldiers wielding AK-47s, Africa of majestic buildings in Addis Ababa, and Africa of victorious Nelson Mandela.

I cannot go to Africa. Not yet. But I can bring a part of Africa to my home. I can introduce my children to a world that they yearn to discover as much as I do by cooking a dish that represents at least some aspects of this wonderful, mysterious, and so exploited continent. And as a background, I will offer them the books and the movies that seduced me and enticed me to learn as much as I can about Africa, enveloped in romanticism and destroyed by greed.

Heat the skillet on medium-high heat and add the chicken and the marinade.

Stir for 5-8 minutes until the chicken starts to get brown.

Add the onion.

Stir for another 5 minutes.

Add tomato paste and peanut butter.

Stir for a couple of minutes until everything melds together.

Add the chicken stock, sweet potatoes, and the seasonings.

Cook for another 20-30 minutes, until the sauce thickens and the potatoes are fork-tender.

Serve as is, or with some boiled rice.

3.2.2802

1 pound (500gr) boneless chicken legs. chopped in cubes

2 cloves garlic, minced

1 Tbsp brown sugar

1 piece ginger (1 inch), peeled, grated

1 Tbsp garlic chili paste

1 tsp salt

2 Tbsp sunflower oil

1 medium onion, diced

2 Tbsp tomato paste

2 Tbsp smooth peanut butter

2 cups chicken stock

2 big sweet potatoes peeled and cut in big chunks

salt, pepper

Directions:

Combine the chicken, garlic, brown sugar, ginger, garlic-chili paste, salt, and oil, and marinade for 30 minutes. Heat the skillet on medium-high heat and add the chicken and the marinade. Stir for 5-8 minutes until the chicken starts to get brown, and add the onion. Stir for another 5 minutes and add the tomato paste, and the peanut butter. Stir for a couple of minutes until everything melds together. Add the chicken stock, sweet potatoes, and the seasonings. Cook for another 20-30 minutes, until the sauce thickens and the potatoes are fork-tender. Serve as is, or with some boiled rice.

]]>http://bibberche.com/sweet-potato-chicken-stew/feed/1Here Comes the Lent: Serbian Potato Saladhttp://bibberche.com/serbian-potato-salad/
http://bibberche.com/serbian-potato-salad/#commentsTue, 24 Feb 2015 17:07:04 +0000http://bibberche.com/?p=2559I have never taken February seriously. It was the month right after winter break when my legs still craved the tortuous curves of the moguls on the snow-covered mountain, feeling the weight of the boards and the bindings days after we said goodbye to our family winter haven. It was short and unassuming, but crammed […]

I have never taken February seriously. It was the month right after winter break when my legs still craved the tortuous curves of the moguls on the snow-covered mountain, feeling the weight of the boards and the bindings days after we said goodbye to our family winter haven.

It was short and unassuming, but crammed full of school work devoid of the promise of a holiday (there is no Presidents’ Day or MLK Day in Serbia). It was also the month before my birthday, which made it irrelevant and easily ignored. The only interesting fact that I could attach to this gray and drab part of the year was my Grandmother Babuljica’s birthday: when she died she was technically only 16 years old, as her birthday occurred every four years on February 29. That and the first blooms of the spring, the bright yellow blossoms of forsythia bushes that stood apart like beacons in the sea of gray.

Fat Tuesday holds little significance for me, even though I am tempted every year to go into the kitchen and emerge only after I produce a big bowl of krofne, which are very similar to Polish paczki or the beignets served at the Cafe du Monde. While my adventurous spirit always keeps alive a desire for losing myself in the throngs of scantily clad Brazilians inebriated by the seductive rhythm of samba, garishly costumed Southerners emptying innumerable hurricanes in N’awlins, or slender Italians hiding behind articulately decorated masks along the canals of Venice, I refuse to pretend that I am part of the celebrating crowd only by decorating the house in the appropriate colors and serving the delicacies meant to bring the tired carnival-goers necessary sustenance before they embark on forty days of Lent.

For Orthodox Christians, the last day before Lent is the Saturday that falls six weeks before Easter Sunday. Without a prompt from me, Father used to bring me the church calendar that marked the dates of all the religious holidays. This year I have to consult the almighty Internet to seek the information. I found out that the two Easters are separated by only a week, which makes this passed Sunday the last day before Lent for my fellow Serbs. There are no make-believe parades in my town, no colorful costumes, loud music, or traditional dishes that make the passage into Lent more bearable. On Monday, the believers have started to abstain from all red meat, dairy products, and eggs for six weeks, as the Christian Orthodox faith prescribes.

This February arrived incredibly fast. I have not caught my breath from the hectic tempo of the holiday season. The end of the month is approaching with geometric progression, and if we stayed in Midwest, I would be suffering the intoxicating effects of the incoming spring fever and be quite ready for the snow to finally melt. But in Southern California we are surrounded by eternal spring and bright forsythia flowers are not necessary to break winter depression.

When we were growing up, the six weeks before Easter were no different than any other week of the year as my parents were not religious. We will not embark on six weeks of abstinence either, and even though the geek in me has researched the traditions and observances of the Eastern Christians and come up with several dishes that mark the passage into Lent among Russians and Greeks, I will have to ignore the urges of the food anthropologist wannabe and refrain myself.

Next year I might make gumbo, krofne, or beignets. Or even better, I might be off to Rio, New Orleans, or Venice, ready to tackle on the most demanding challenges of the carnivals, toasting the world with a caipirinha, a hurricane, or a negroni. This year, I will mark the beginning of Lent with a dish that is unavoidable on any Serbian Lenten table featuring fish – the potato salad. My girls never get tired of it and I make it fairly often.

You can use any type of waxy potato that doesn’t fall apart. This time I used Ruby Red new potatoes and Belgian leeks from my friends at Melissa’s Produce.

When I was four years old, I remember Mother packing boxes full of clothes, coats, and shoes, and taking them down to the local Red Cross center to be shipped to Vietnam. Often, she was teary-eyed when she told me that she could always knit me another sweater and sew me another pretty dress while some children, as young as I was, in this far-away country went without food, water, and clothes.

In fifth grade, I fell in love with Pearl Buck and devoured every word she had written, transporting myself to China every night and living the lives of her unhappy heroines. In grade school, I became fascinated by geography and obsessed with major mountain chains, gross national products, capitals, waterways, and culture of Asia.

In high school I lost hours immersed in the books of Rudyard Kipling, W. Somerset Maugham, and Louis Bromfield, dreaming of monsoons, moist heat, tropical fruit, and sultry nights. I loved to recite the names of the Indonesian islands: Borneo, Java, Sumatra, Celebes (or Sulawesi, as it is known today), feeling touched by the magic of the Orient. I visited these lands vicariously through the written word, TV coverage of major political events, and movies.

Going off to college in our capital city of Belgrade did not bring me any closer to the real culture of Asia. Sure, there were students in my class studying Japanese, and I occasionally saw a diplomat’s family from Korea or Malaysia walking the streets. But there was little that was cosmopolitan about Belgrade in the 80s, at least from the perspective of a provincial student.

The first Chinese restaurant, Peking, opened on one of the side streets close to the University, but having to choose how to spend what little money we had, we remained loyal to the familiar places that served plenty of wine and had live music on weekends. I peeked inside longingly from time to time, but my adventurous spirit was spent riding on the back of the moped my cousin, Maja would “borrow” from her older brother, or staying at my friends’ dorm room until dawn, waiting for the first morning bus filled with still sleepy factory workers to bring me back home, exhausted and hoarse from too much debating and too many cigarettes.

When I was a freshmen, my Aunt who worked as the secretary for one of the deans introduced me to an elderly Chinese man finishing his doctoral studies in Philosophy. His name was Wu Shi Kan, which was immediately changed into the Serbian: Vukašin, as a term of endearment. He spoke Serbian fluently, having studied in China. My Aunt and Uncle took Vukašin everywhere they went, showing him the country and letting him experience the friendliness of the Balkan people.

I went home for the weekend when they brought Vukašin to visit my family. He charmed us all with his warm smile and beautiful music he wrought from his harmonica. He told stories of his homeland, laughing a little about his wife’s humble family which came from the potato region of China, and crying when remembering his children. I was mesmerized when he started talking about food, not for my culinary inclinations, but because the dishes he described were so exotic and strange that they evoked memories of old fairy tales I had read as a child. I remember him painting a vivid picture of a celebratory dish he called The Battle of Tiger and Dragon, which consisted of such far-fetched and weird ingredients that we believed he was pulling a fast one on us, taking advantage of our naïveté in his sweet, unassuming, and innocent way.

Before he left, Vukašin gave us bookmarks dotted with Chinese characters and depicting pandas, bamboo stalks, and old figurines. Those were the days when our stores were not inundated with made in China goods, and these little gifts were unique and special. We gathered as he retreated through the front door facing us and bowing in respect, the warm smile illuminating his eyes, and we felt like we were saying Goodbye! to an old friend.

I went to hear Wu Shi Kan defend his doctoral thesis. I shook his hand and congratulated him. He smiled and thanked me in his warm, soft voice. I heard from my Aunt that he had returned to China to his children and his loving potato-eating wife. I have recently found one of his bookmarks in an old day-timer I brought with me to U.S. and it flooded me with memories, not only of him, but of my love for the distant lands of Asia. I smiled because I knew that one day soon I would find someone to repeat to me the story of the Battling Tigers and Dragons and I would find out how much fun Vukašin had with us.

In the meantime, I explore the culinary world of Asia, ingredient by ingredient, culture by culture. I approach the 99 Ranch Market with the apprehension and excitement of Marco Polo, overwhelmed with the smells and sights around me, entertained by hilarious translations, and humbled by the sea of the unfamiliar.

Thanks to my friends at Melissa’s Produce, my knowledge of Asian fruits and vegetables is growing exponentially, as I learn to recognize and distinguish one from the other. The world of Orient is still mysterious, but as I cut Chinese eggplant, bok choy, or gai lan, I imagine that for a day my family might be tasting the flavors that filled Wu Shi Kan’s children’s plates back than when he was sharing the food of the Balkans with us. As we usher the Year of the Ram, I want to wish his family and all my friends who celebrate Happy New Year.

]]>http://bibberche.com/year-of-the-ram/feed/6Halloween Story: Freaky Fruit Saladhttp://bibberche.com/halloween-story-freaky-fruit-salad/
http://bibberche.com/halloween-story-freaky-fruit-salad/#commentsThu, 23 Oct 2014 23:44:32 +0000http://bibberche.com/?p=4248We don’t celebrate Halloween in Serbia, but I knew all about it as I screamed every time Mike Myers’ face hidden behind the hockey mask appeared on the screen in the movie theater in my home town. I arrived to the U.S. in August, and three months later I couldn’t wait to participate in my […]

We don’t celebrate Halloween in Serbia, but I knew all about it as I screamed every time Mike Myers’ face hidden behind the hockey mask appeared on the screen in the movie theater in my home town. I arrived to the U.S. in August, and three months later I couldn’t wait to participate in my first trick-or-treating. It was an adventure, as it involved a trip to Chicago on an old VW bus, a detour to the “mushroom place” (no, I am not talking about a patch in the meadow where the wild mushrooms dwell), countless bottles of booze, and, to me, an unfamiliar concept of bar-hopping. In fact, I felt as if I were crashing a party, and spent most of the time with my mouth agape, trying to figure out what had happened to me and who was directing the movie that I was an extra in.

In the following years I attended some pretty tame and some not-that-tame Halloween parties, and when I had my first daughter, I was relieved to pass on the tradition to her and stay in the background, my role limited to concocting a creative costume and pushing the stroller. When my younger two were ready to go out and try their luck at trick-or-treating, I was full of energy and enthusiasm. But with time, I started dreading this time of year, knowing that I’ll have to spend too many hours discussing the costumes, both for school and for after-dark (as they could never be the same), gathering the necessary material, making the costumes, and buying the additional props.

I made Halloween treats and took them to school. I snapped some great photos of my pumpkins, nurses, Draculas, butterflies, ladybugs, and mummies at more than a dozen Halloween school parades, and prodded them up one more driveway when they were whining about being exhausted fifteen minutes after we started the yearly ritual of extorting candy from the neighbors.

While we pulled the Radio Flyer Red Wagon with two bundled-up girls crying in harmony, I longingly stared at the adults gathered around the fire pits, kicked back with a cocktail, a plastic cauldron full of candy next to the chair leg, spooky sounds coming from the porches, wishing that I could join them, rather than trying to convince my two ingrates to make a go of the last house on the block and collect more sweets that would sit on the kitchen counter for months.

My oldest dresses up every year and attends parties that I really don’t want to know about. She is creative and funny, and I cannot wait for her to post photos to her Facebook page. My teens require only a little bit of my help with their costumes and no help with trick-or-treating, and I am more than happy to send them off to join their shrieking friends. Some years I join my friends around the fire pit; I drink wine and pass out candy, grateful that I don’t have to be a Halloween Nazi ever again and pretty confident that all the Mounds bars the teens collect will be mine.

]]>http://bibberche.com/halloween-story-freaky-fruit-salad/feed/6Robert Vs. Robert: The Judgehttp://bibberche.com/robert-vs-robert-judge/
http://bibberche.com/robert-vs-robert-judge/#commentsFri, 10 Oct 2014 13:43:10 +0000http://bibberche.com/?p=4233I’ve been in LA for six years and some pixie dust has inevitably landed on my shoulders; a few wrap parties, a screening of a short or a documentary, a celebrity sighting on the Main Street in Santa Monica… It is not unusual, as we all know some people who work in the industry. Yesterday […]

I’ve been in LA for six years and some pixie dust has inevitably landed on my shoulders; a few wrap parties, a screening of a short or a documentary, a celebrity sighting on the Main Street in Santa Monica… It is not unusual, as we all know some people who work in the industry. Yesterday was the first time I was in the big studio lot, though, experiencing the glamorous side of my new home from the inside.

I was at Warner Brothers studios in Burbank for the screening of “The Judge”, the day before the movie was to be released in theaters. A visitor’s pass in hand, I walked through the lot along the familiar-looking New York City brownstones, banks, and post offices, windowless vehicles filled with tourists rumbling away down the cobblestone streets.

Once inside the theater, all noises stopped, the Technicolor blue of the southern California sky immediately forgotten. As the lights dimmed and the familiar logo appeared on the screen in front of me, I felt a surge of excitement that used to engulf me when I was a child back in Serbia and still believed in the magic of Hollywood.

I wasn’t sure what to expect, but I liked the casting of Robert Duvall and Robert Downey Junior as the estranged father and son. By the end, I did not know if I should laugh or cry. David Dobkin’s movie is an emotional family drama filled with scenes reminiscent of “Kramer vs. Kramer”, “Terms of Endearment”, and “Rain Man”, interspersed with Downey’s fast and venomous repratees and belly-aching jokes.

Robert Duvall was perfect as an intimidating pater familias, a strict and fair small-town judge who slowly falls apart after his wife’s sudden death. His son Hank is a sleek, unscrupulous big-city attorney who defends rich white-colar criminals without remorse, but at home, his marriage is in shambles. He returns home after many years of voluntary exile to attend his mother’s funeral, but without her acting like glue for this dysfunctional family, and the judge suddenly finding himself accused of murder, the ugly floats to the surface and the family unravels.

There are a few predictable scenes and clichés (like in-your-face-obvious parallel between the tornado brewing while the family drama explodes), and some subplots that do not contribute to the story (like the ex-girlfriend and the her daughter, who could be Hank’s), as well as flashbacks intended to patch the holes and “tell” us what transpired, but I was willing to close my eyes to the imperfections and go with the gut feeling. And my gut was clenched.

This story was my story and the story of many of us who have to make peace with out parents. Hollywood likes happy endings and in the movie Hank manages to find his closure and understand the reasons for all the hurt. We all crave that, but in reality it does not happen that often. And even though I knew that in the end Hank and his dad would reconcile, I was rooting for him, sending him telepathic messages to just shut it, warning him that once they are gone, they are gone forever.

After the movie ended, the producer (and Robert Downey’s wife) Susan Downey joined us for a chat. It was illuminating to find out how a project like this starts, develops, matures, and ends up on the screen for everyone to see. For the audience, it’s approximately one hundred minutes of an uninterrupted story, but in reality it’s a process that lasts several years, that comes together in pieces, each one thoughtfully put together.

Go see the movie. It will make you run to hug you mom or dad really tightly. And if you are at odds with your parents, it will make you determined to seek the answers, to be more patient and tolerant, and to let go of the past that is hurting everyone. Now, give me a handkerchief so that I can cry in peace.

Group photo with Susan Downey (sitting in the director’s chair on the left) courtesy of The Moms

]]>http://bibberche.com/robert-vs-robert-judge/feed/2Corn Bread with Hatch Chileshttp://bibberche.com/corn-bread-hatch-chiles/
http://bibberche.com/corn-bread-hatch-chiles/#commentsFri, 19 Sep 2014 23:35:58 +0000http://bibberche.com/?p=4216Every time I make corn bread I hear my father’s voice telling me how he did not taste any kind of flour bread until the 50s. When he was a youth growing up in post-WWII Yugoslavia, the times were hard, people impoverished, the country ravaged from the brutality of the war, and hunger was an […]

Every time I make corn bread I hear my father’s voice telling me how he did not taste any kind of flour bread until the 50s. When he was a youth growing up in post-WWII Yugoslavia, the times were hard, people impoverished, the country ravaged from the brutality of the war, and hunger was an everyday experience for the majority. “We ate only corn bread, and not that beautified version that housewives make today with eggs, and cheese, and ham… Ours was made only from corn meal and water. And when your stomach was rumbling, nothing tasted sweeter than those hardened discs seemingly made completely of crusts”.

I have tried many times in vain to replicate the corn bread from his adolescence that people in my country still make for big weddings and community events, as that bread is the only allowed accompaniment to anything made of sauerkraut. Mother was not particularly fond of that basic formula and preferred to treat us to the “sissified version” Father keeps on mocking (even though I have never seen him reject a slice when offered). Since there was not a recipe for it in her handwritten cookbook I inherited, I am at a loss.

When I am in Serbia and there happens to be a feast featuring this simple bread, I enjoy it, as the only flavor that’s present is the sweetness of the mill-ground corn meal and maybe a grain or two of salt. My daughters don’t like it and as Father will probably never cross the Atlantic to visit us again due to his stroke last year, I don’t have an incentive to master the old-fashioned corn bread baking. No matter how much I love it, I cannot envision eating the whole thing by myself, which would probably take me about a week.

But everyone in my house likes corn bread, the city cousin of the rugged traditional pauper: the Serbian version, the southern version, and even the sweet Yankee version. I buy corn meal at my neighborhood Persian store, and even though it’s yellow, it’s the closest to stone-ground corn meal from Serbia. I usually make it plain (yes, I can hear Father snorting), adding only some crumbled feta, but this time I had a few roasted hot Hatch chiles, and it seemed like that would be quite a compatible fit.

I served it as a side dish to chili and instead of kajmak*, which is what would be served in Serbia, I offered cream cheese as a substitute. After a few bites, we all concluded that it tasted like jalapeño poppers. And jalapeño poppers are my guilty pleasure. Now that Hatch chile season is slowly coming to an end, I am going to make sure to have a few packets in my freezer just for the days when the popper cravings hit.

*kajmak is a Serbian dairy product similar to clotted cream; when the fresh milk from the cow is slowly heated, it forms a thick skin on the surface which is comprised of milk fat; that layer is collected with a slotted spoon, placed in a bowl, and salted; the process continues for several days with each new batch of milk. This is one of the few Serbian products that cannot be found outside of the Balkans and are really difficult to make at home, as it asks for fresh cow milk, and lots of it!

]]>http://bibberche.com/corn-bread-hatch-chiles/feed/7Moms’ Night Out: A Spoke & Weal Salon Eventhttp://bibberche.com/moms-night-spoke-weal-salon-event/
http://bibberche.com/moms-night-spoke-weal-salon-event/#commentsSat, 13 Sep 2014 13:16:43 +0000http://bibberche.com/?p=4202A few people I consider my close friends know that I hardly spend any time at beauty salons. Not because I have anything against getting pampered, but because I always end up feeling buyers remorse. And that’s not fun. So, the last time I had a massage was when my youngest daughter bought me a […]

A few people I consider my close friends know that I hardly spend any time at beauty salons. Not because I have anything against getting pampered, but because I always end up feeling buyers remorse. And that’s not fun. So, the last time I had a massage was when my youngest daughter bought me a treatment at Massage Envy for one of my birthdays a few years ago. I had my hair done last October to celebrate my newly acquired freedom after a judge signed final divorce paperwork and again in March for my 50th birthday (I admit that my sister had to push me through the door, as I was reluctant). My last facial was at a salon in Rocky River, Ohio, where I worked as a manager, more than fifteen years ago.

It should not be surprising then that I was more than excited when I got the opportunity to spend an evening at a new, upscale Los Angeles salon Spoke & Weal, an event sponsored by Sony Home Entertainment and The Buzz Girls for the launch of the Blu-Ray and DVD of Sony’s Moms’ Night Out.

The salon was modern and sleek, with clean lines and lots of metal, glass, reflector lights, and naked bulbs. Wooden floors and planters with succulents on every working surface brought a touch of warmth, and cinder-block walls painted stark white made the high-ceiling room spacious and bright.

There were about thirty of us and throughout the evening, we were treated like princesses. We sipped wine or pretty pink cocktails made with berry-infused vodka, elderflower liquor, and soda. We nibbled on tiny, delectable hors-d’oeuvres catered by a near-by restaurant and mini-cupcakes in several flavors, soft, moist, and artfully decorated by Sweet E’s Bakery.

They offered us mini manicures, back and neck massages, eyebrow treatments, and hair styling. Wherever I looked, all I could see were happy, smiling women peeking in the mirrors, tossing their newly done tresses, and raising their glasses to one another, excited and grateful for the night out, away from the routine of family life.

I have to admit I felt pretty glamorous as the evening was winding down. For a few hours I was Cinderella, whisked away from my everyday life and spoiled by many dexterous hands, exotically scented ointments, perfect little bites of food, and, of course, alcohol. I just wish I had a ball to attend all dolled up, relaxed, and exhilarated.

Thanks, Nicole from mPRm, The Buzz Girls, Sony Home Entertainment, Spoke & Weal, and all the people who made us feel like celebrities!

]]>http://bibberche.com/moms-night-spoke-weal-salon-event/feed/9Figs Poached in Red Wine: Figology Fest Part Twohttp://bibberche.com/figs-poached-red-wine-figology-fest-part-two/
http://bibberche.com/figs-poached-red-wine-figology-fest-part-two/#commentsWed, 20 Aug 2014 00:50:14 +0000http://bibberche.com/main/?p=4192I remember the first time I tasted a fresh fig. I was four that summer, on vacation in Montenegro, with my younger sister and our parents. I remember the feel of hot pebbles and cool Adriatic caressing my chubby feet. I remember Father brought a paper cone filled with warm figs from the market and […]

I remember the first time I tasted a fresh fig. I was four that summer, on vacation in Montenegro, with my younger sister and our parents. I remember the feel of hot pebbles and cool Adriatic caressing my chubby feet. I remember Father brought a paper cone filled with warm figs from the market and spilled them on top of our oversized striped beach towel. I watched the weird-looking fruit with suspicion, doubting its real identity, invoking the images of Christmas Eves and amber-colored, chewy, and wrinkled pillows filled with sweet seeds that adorned the table along with nuts and raisins

Father bit into a slightly soft, light brown fig to reveal fleshy pulp the color of my tongue, and when his eyes closed in delight I trusted him without a question. I reached for one tentatively; my sister followed, and pretty soon we were running to the sea to wash off the sticky, pink rivulets that laced our tanned limbs, as we crunched the small seeds between our molars, trying to extract the last traces of the exotic honey taste that enchanted us.

For years, the only time I enjoyed figs was on the beaches of the Adriatic, and I almost forgot my initial infatuation. But now we live in Southern California and even though figs are everywhere, in grocery stores, at farmers’ markets, on neighborhood trees, I behave as if I still had not received the memo and grab a box greedily every time I see one. The fruit disappears as fast, sneaky long fingers plucking them one by one, until only their plastic containers remain.

It should not be a surprise then that I felt as if I won the lottery a couple of weeks ago when I came home balancing two huge boxes of warm, California figs in each arm. I spent an afternoon at my friend Erika’s house for the second installment of the Figology Fest, featuring fresh figs from California Fig Commission. There are some enormously talented individuals among my food blogger friends, but Judy and Erika quickly rose to the top as I sampled dozens of starters, main dishes, drinks, and desserts, each creatively elevating the sweet, honey flavor of several different varieties of figs.

Fig and Port Milkshake

Figs Stuffed with Bleu Cheese and Topped with Almonds

Parmesan Crisp with Fig and Mascarpone Cheese

Pork with Figs

Rashmi’s daughter Simone offering latter with a smile

Rockfish Fig Fennel Tacos

Lemon Tart with Fresh Figs

I love spending time surrounded by like-minded people, sipping good wine, catching up with old friends and making new friendships happen. I could not get enough of the morsels making their way out of Erika’s beautiful kitchen: each creatively arranged bite-size dish was flavorful and assertive, allowing the fig to shine as the main ingredient, or to carry on as the sidekick.

Kim of Ninja Baking and I

And we did not leave empty-handed – those boxes of figs that I had hard time balancing were a parting gift from the California Fig Commission. When I finally managed to plop them on my counter, I was in heaven. The summers of my childhood suddenly came alive as I started biting into the warm, supple fruit, its juice staining my cheeks and making my fingers sticky.

But even with the help of my girls I could not eat everything I brought home. I used a bunch to make jam, some to make a delightful salad, several of them ended up on top of a pizza, and I reserved a handful for a special dessert. While it was cooking, the aroma from the kitchen sent me back and forth between the continent, and a smile stayed forever on my lips.

FIGS POACHED IN RED WINE

Ingredients:

¾ cups granulated sugar

1 Tbsp water

1 cup red wine

1 vanilla bean

1 cinnamon stick

1 sprig of rosemary

12 ripe figs (cut the stems off and make a cross at the top) (I used Mission figs, but any variety will do)

vanilla ice cream

Directions:

Pour sugar and water into a small, heavy sauce pan.

Cook on medium-low heat to caramelize, swirling the pot to brown evenly.

When it reaches a deep amber color, take off the heat and add wine, vanilla bean, cinnamon, and rosemary.

Cook until it boils.

Carefully add figs and simmer for 10-15 minutes, depending on how firm the figs are.

Take the figs out and continue to cook the sauce for another 10-15 minutes, until it reduces by half.

Strain and let cool at room temperature.

When ready to serve, spoon ice cream into a dish and top with figs and wine sauce.

Figology Fest Part One happened some time in March and I was in awe of all the creative recipes Erika and Judy prepared using dried figs. Please visit Judy’s site Two Broads Abroad to read all about it).

]]>http://bibberche.com/figs-poached-red-wine-figology-fest-part-two/feed/11No More Take-Out: Everyday Thai Cooking Is Here!http://bibberche.com/no-more-take-out-everyday-thai-cooking-is-here/
http://bibberche.com/no-more-take-out-everyday-thai-cooking-is-here/#commentsThu, 17 Jul 2014 13:00:11 +0000http://bibberche.com/?p=4169My father spent two weeks in Thailand a decade or so ago, as a participant of an international ObGyn conference. My sister and her husband explored several Thai resorts looking for the ultimate scuba-diving adventure. Many of my friends from Europe and the U.S. have been posting their photos from visiting Siam to their Facebook […]

My father spent two weeks in Thailand a decade or so ago, as a participant of an international ObGyn conference. My sister and her husband explored several Thai resorts looking for the ultimate scuba-diving adventure. Many of my friends from Europe and the U.S. have been posting their photos from visiting Siam to their Facebook pages in recent years.

I listen to and read many of their stories, longingly touch the souvenirs they bring back, and admire the images that accompany each one of their tales. I live vicariously through their memories, happy for their experiences, but at the same time completely consumed with the insatiable “reisefieber”.

I occasionally try to satisfy the hunger for traveling by roaming the aisles of my neighborhood Asian stores. I bury my face in a bunch of purple-tinted Thai basil and scratch-and-sniff stiff stalks of lemongrass in a vain desire to be transported to the land that has been calling my name for years.

I know the food can take me there instantaneously, but I have been hesitant to delve in and try to replicate all those fragrant dishes I enjoyed in Berkeley and San Francisco. Even though I live in Los Angeles, where I can find all the exotic ingredients necessary to prepare a Thai meal, I was intimidated by the thought. But no more.

I met Katie just a few weeks ago at Camp Blogaway. Her life story really touched my heart. Katie’s mother opened one of the first Chinese restaurants in Minneapolis and taught her how to cook from an early age. But when Katie moved to California and started working in the entertainment industry, her hectic life pulled her away from cooking. She ate out most days and soon she felt that she had forgotten how to prepare a meal on her own. She called for help and her mother joined her, determined to stand by her side and guide her to reconnect with the art she almost lost. In no time, Katie quit her job and started a catering company with her mother. She didn’t only regain her knowledge of cooking – she quickly became a culinary expert, appearing on cooking shows by herself and along with her mother, authoring cookbooks, teaching cooking classes, and demonstrating recipes for various TV stations.

Melissa’s chefs prepared several recipes from Katie’s book. Everything we tasted was full of flavor, fresh, colorful, and bold.

After lunch Katie entertained us while showing us her effortless way of preparing Thai food – in this case Chiang-Mai Chicken in Lettuce Cups and Pineapple Fried Rice. Both of these dishes combined the elements of flavor that are always present in Thai cooking: sweet, salty, sour, and hot. Katie is warm, personable, vivacious, and funny. Her passion for cooking and love of all Asian food was apparent throughout the demonstration. We learned that we can freeze grated ginger and break away the pieces as needed. She taught us how to use lemongrass and offered suggestions for serving these dishes (like this pineapple bowl).

Photo by Melissa’s

As a mother of twin toddlers, she is aware of time constraints of working families. There are more than 100 recipes in her book and almost all of them are quick and easy. She de-mystified the art of cooking Thai, providing basic recipes for delicious staple dishes that include both homemade and store-bought options. The dishes are organized by courses and each step-by step recipe lists prep times and substitutions for more elusive ingredients. Did I mention that the book is gorgeous? The photography is amazing and just looking at all those beautiful colors and glossy pages makes me want to cook.

Photo by Valentina from Cooking on the Weekends

Everyday Thai Cookingis a compilation of simple recipes that embody the essence of Thai cuisine. The book is published by Tuttle Publishing (thank you for my own copy!) and you can purchase it from Amazon. As far as I am concerned, I am not stuffing it on my shelf to collect dust – this beauty is going to become a favorite, a well-used friend who will help me master the art of Siamese food.

]]>http://bibberche.com/no-more-take-out-everyday-thai-cooking-is-here/feed/3Everything You Ever Wanted to Know About Peppers, But Were Afraid to Ask: Pepper Cookbookhttp://bibberche.com/everything-you-ever-wanted-to-know-about-peppers-pepper-cookbook/
http://bibberche.com/everything-you-ever-wanted-to-know-about-peppers-pepper-cookbook/#commentsWed, 18 Jun 2014 21:52:18 +0000http://bibberche.com/?p=4155The creative and knowledgeable people at Melissa’s Produce have managed to bring forth another beautifully photographed, informative, and immensely useful book: The Great Pepper Cookbook – The Ultimate Guide to Choosing and Cooking With Peppers. This one is very close to my heart as I cannot imagine my life as a Serb without the formidable […]

Ever since I arrived to the shores of the U.S., many of my friends found themselves smitten by the number of dishes the Serbs can make with peppers. Used only to an occasional pepper ring in their salad, they were easily seduced by roasted peppers sprinkled with garlic and dressed with a vinaigrette; ajvar, the roasted red pepper spread that takes hours to make, but worth every second of hard work; hot yellow bell peppers filled with unpasteurized milk and left to ferment until the milk becomes creamy, spicy, and tangy; banana peppers blanched in water, oil, vinegar and spices, and marinated with parsley and garlic; and stuffed colorful bell peppers.

I opened the book expecting to pat myself on the back as a proven pepper connoisseur, but in mere minutes I found myself immersed in facts that were never a part of my vast trivia knowledge. I pored over the first several pages devoted to various types of fresh and dried chiles, their descriptions, photos, and the place on the Scoville scale. I discovered that the hot peppers of my childhood and youth are considered pretty mild compared to their fiery Latin or Asian cousins, and immediately thought of the ways to bring some seeds to my relatives and friends who enjoy the spicy heat.

The rest of the book consists of recipes divided in chapters according to the course: there are Appetizers, Snacks and Drinks, Breakfast and Brunch, Soups and Salads, Sandwiches, Main Dishes, Side Dishes, and Desserts. Each recipes shows the photos of the peppers used, the index of heat, and tips on toning it down, heating it up, or making it ahead.

I started placing post-it notes to the recipes I was eager to try, but after most of the pages were marked, I had to give up. I am never without fresh peppers in my fridge and now I have a few bags of different dry peppers, thanks to the generous folks at Melissa’s Produce. I have already tried a few recipes which were greeted with accolades. The book sits on my coffee table, pretty enough to be a conversation topic, but incredibly useful and informative as a guide. I know I will reach for it any time I am short on inspiration and I am positive that it will not disappoint me.

The first dish I tried was Grilled Steak and Potato Salad (p.111), which asked for both dried Chile de Arbol and Pasilla Negro. It was simple to prepare, with several layers of flavor, and served at room temperature, a perfect meal for a long, hot California evening.

The next was Spicy Pork Stir-Fry (p.175) with yakisoba noodles and Napa cabbage, which called for both dry and fresh peppers. It was a zesty, slightly spicy dish, with a great balance of crunchy and soft.

And then there was Beef Barbacoa (p. 171), a rich, comforting dish that filled my home with a heady aroma while it simmered for several hours. I used dried Hatch chiles, poblanos, and multicolored bell peppers.

I urge you to go get the book if you want to learn everything there is about fresh and dry peppers. You can find it at your local bookstore, Amazon, or at Melissa’s Produce website. It made me look at the world of peppers in a completely different way and now I can walk in any grocery store or farmers’ market with real confidence to choose the perfect variety for my meal.